


Scars

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Burns, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is fascinated by Lestrade's scars, but it's years before he realises just how many he put there and just how deep they go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This came into my head and demanded to be written. It's darker than I wanted it to be, and perhaps sad, but I hope also hopeful. Anyway. Back to Human Remains tomorrow. Possible trigger warning for lots of scars and also fairly extensive burns.

Scars are external. They are the areas of fibrous tissue which replace normal skin after injury.

It was only when he returned from two years abroad that Sherlock realised it was possible to be scarred in other ways too.

He had always been fascinated by scars.

Lestrade had a scar on his right hand. Sherlock knew because Lestrade lifted that hand to touch the skin by Sherlock’s eye the very first time they touched.

For all of their interactions, Lestrade had worn gloves. In London, in winter, he had strolled around his crime scenes in a coat, scarf and gloves. It was four months after they had met, and Sherlock was high. He was loving it. Observations swam through his head in a beautifully diluted form. Pure and exciting. It didn’t make him want to scream. It was calm and he was enjoying every second. Lestrade, apparently, wasn’t.

He lifted his hand and touched just below Sherlock’s eye so he could tilt up Sherlock’s head to study his pupils. Sherlock saw the scar for the first time. It was long and thin, between his thumb and index finger. He grabbed Lestrade’s fingers, pulling his hand away from his face so he could study it.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

“How did you get that?” Sherlock asked.

“I broke up a bar fight. Got sliced with glass for my trouble. Sherlock, are you high?”

Sherlock studied him. Lestrade's brow was furrowed, but he was disappointed rather than angry. Mycroft always got angry, so Lestrade’s reaction was a surprise. A good surprise, perhaps.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his clutching Lestrade’s fingers. “But I can still work.”

“No,” Lestrade replied, pulling his hand away. “No, you can’t. C’mon. I’m driving you home.” His hand, that scarred hand, pressed firmly against Sherlock’s lower back, his fingers splayed out. That was the second time Lestrade touched him.

The effects of the drugs were beginning to wear off and Sherlock let himself be led to Lestrade’s car. His hands began to shake as they approached his building. Lestrade took one look at the property with its boarded-up windows, did a three point turn and drove him to his flat instead.

Sherlock had never been there before, but he kicked his shoes and coat off like he owned it, letting them fall onto the floor, before stretching over Lestrade’s sofa.

Lestrade’s wife had been gone for six weeks. Sherlock knew because Lestrade didn’t eat nicely-packed lunches anymore, but instead, he bought food from Tesco Express or that deli around the corner from the Yard. Sometimes he didn’t eat. He downed a hot coffee, moving briskly from one task to another.

Sherlock ached for heroin. He needed it in his veins. He needed it in his head. Because it was beginning to race again.

Words were floating around Lestrade’s flat. Large enough for one person, cosy for two. It had all the furniture a single man needed, but it was sparsely decorated. Sofas from a charity shop, secondhand television bought from a member of the drugs squad. His wife had taken their jointly-bought furniture.

Sherlock knew everything there was to know about Lestrade, or so he’d thought, but today he’d discovered that scar. Lestrade carried a glass of water over and Sherlock opened his eyes to study him.

He was wearing a white shirt with long sleeves and trousers and shoes and socks. Sherlock wanted to strip it all off so he could see what else was hiding beneath those layers.

He didn’t want to do that to many people. Lestrade was an exception, and that was intriguing.

Lestrade had been an exception for four months. Ever since he’d found Sherlock being beaten in an alleyway behind a pub because Sherlock hadn’t been able to pay a dealer back, he’d been an exception. He arrested the perpetrators, saw them go to jail for several months each and paid for Sherlock to stay at a B&B for two weeks.

The bruises from that assault had faded now. Sherlock’s only scars were from a needle - and even they were small and largely unnoticeable.

Lestrade held out the water. Oh yes. Water. From Lestrade’s scarred hand.

Sherlock snatched the glass from him and then grabbed Lestrade’s hand. He stared down at the scar, rubbing his thumb against it.

“What on earth are you doing?” Lestrade asked, but Sherlock ignored him.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I told you.”

“No. You told me next to nothing.”

Lestrade frowned a bit and sat down on the floor. He let Sherlock continue to study his hand. That intrigued Sherlock too. He let him do things. He let him visit crime scenes. He let him observe.

Like he was observing the scar just now. It was caused by glass, Lestrade had told him that much. It was a thin line, so it was a slice rather than stab… Sherlock eyed him expectantly.

Greg chuckled a bit. “I was breaking up a fight. Someone held a broken bottle out and I caught my hand on it. There’s nothing to it.”

Sherlock huffed and let go of his hand. They spent the next 35 hours pulling him through withdrawal. Sherlock was ill and lashed out a lot. Lestrade took it. He always did.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had a scar on his left knee. Sherlock knew because he saw him wearing shorts before he went to play football one afternoon.

Sherlock was sweating and aching. Lestrade opened the door to him, took one look at him and groaned. “Come in,” he said, heading for the bathroom and grabbing the painkillers and hydration sachets. He had everything Sherlock ever needed when he was going through withdrawal.

Sherlock hovered in the doorway. He glanced down at Lestrade’s legs. They were shapely. Muscled. Defined. With dark hairs. And a long scar underneath his right knee.

Sherlock felt awful, but it was easy to ignore when he stared at the scar. Lestrade followed his gaze, frowning. “Sherlock?” he pressed.

Sherlock didn’t give the connotations of his actions any thought as he sunk down to his knees in front of him and reached out to touch the scar.

He growled in the back of his throat as Lestrade stepped back, holding his hands out and staring in bewilderment. “Sherlock?”

“How did you get it?” Sherlock asked.

Greg frowned at him. “You what?”

“The scar,” Sherlock snapped.

“The scar?” Lestrade repeated, gawking. “Fell of a bike. Come in so I can shut the door.”

Sherlock glared up at him. Lestrade held his hands out. “Come on. Please.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but accepted the offered hands, reacquainting himself with the shakes and the pain of his comedown. Lestrade led him to the sofa and covered him with a red blanket. There were ginger cat hairs on it. Sherlock knew the difference between cat and dog hairs, and besides, dogs weren’t often this shade of ginger.

Sherlock knew Lestrade had no cat, but there was a spot on the chair by the window covered in hairs. Lestrade had taken in a stray then. It came and went as it pleased.

As Lestrade walked over with a glass of water, Sherlock watched his knee, fascinated. Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him. “Go on then,” he murmured. “If it helps, go for it.”

Sherlock reached out and touched the white mark, trying to work out how hard Lestrade must have fallen from the bike, on which surface. He didn’t know Lestrade ever rode a bike. There was nothing in his flat to suggest it was a regular occurrence. “15 years old?” Sherlock asked.

“There abouts,” Lestrade replied with a shrug. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing.”

Lestrade nodded and sat down on the end of the sofa. Sherlock rested his head in his lap, listened as he explained over the phone that he would no longer be at the football and sat with his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. He smoothed down Sherlock’s hair and sat with him until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had a scar covering the majority of his chest. Sherlock knew because he was there when he got it.

Lestrade had broken into a drug den to pull Sherlock out. Other police officers were carrying out arrests. He was screaming at Sherlock about his drug-taking, but Sherlock was so buzzed, he hardly noticed.

Lestrade was firm. Solid. Moral, kind, too kind. He was disgustingly kind, in fact.

But now his face was red from shouting, and his voice going hoarse but the dirty mattress Sherlock was sat on was so comfortable. Sherlock felt his eyes droop. And he was slowly drifting…

So much so, of course, he hardly noticed the fire. That was a rare failure on his part. 

But by the time they had both noticed, the door was surrounded by flames and Lestrade was trying his hardest to smash the window open with a broken chair. Furnishings, what there were, were catching alight at a terrifying rate.

It was hot. Sherlock could feel smoke invading his lungs and he stayed low to the ground.

Lestrade smashed the window, and ensured Sherlock went out first. There wasn’t a big jump to make, but his legs felt like lead. He coughed and spluttered, his fingers covered in mud and grass.

He heard the shriek of pain. When he turned to the window, he saw Lestrade’s chest. The flames. The burns. And by the time Lestrade was outside, he was in a state of shock, his eyes glazed.

Sherlock could hardly focus but he rang for an ambulance and pulled Lestrade from the house as far as he was physically able. He passed out in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock knew the burns would scar.

They were mostly second-degree, with a few third-degree which required skin grafts. The smoke inhalation was the most concerning element according to the doctors. Sherlock knew that too.

He knew as he stood in the corner of the room, numb. He knew as Mycroft came and then went. He knew while doctors checked Lestrade and tended to the burns, and all the while he stood and watched.

Eventually Sherlock could stand up no more. Withdrawal was kicking in, and he sat on the plastic blue chair by Lestrade’s bed, watching over him and listening to beeping of the machines.

He went through withdrawal in pain and without Lestrade for the first time in two years. He promised never to take drugs again.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had a tattoo on his right pectoral muscle. Sherlock knew because he saw it when Lestrade was in hospital.

Tattoos weren’t the same as scars, but they too told stories, even if those stories were more based in emotion and memory than in physical damage. Lestrade’s tattoo was a phoenix, drawn in reds and yellows and oranges.

There was a cruel irony in that, since half of it had been burned away. His head and tail was still intact.

When Lestrade first woke, his voice was hoarse and he whispered “Sher…” when he saw the man beside him.

Sherlock told him to be quiet, and put the oxygen mask back over his face. Lestrade went back to sleep and Sherlock kept a silent vigil at his side.

When Lestrade woke the next time, he didn’t say a word. He looked at Sherlock, his eyes filling with unshed tears. Sherlock told the doctors to increase his pain medication. Lestrade reached for Sherlock with his scarred hand. Sherlock took it without a second thought. Lestrade went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had a scar on his left arm, half-way between his wrist and elbow. Sherlock knew because he’d heard him talk about it.

Lestrade refused Sherlock access to crime scenes after the fire incident. Sherlock could see he was exhausted and triggering memories of the fire on a regular basis. Sherlock didn’t know what to say to him, so said nothing at all.

They fought regularly about drugs. Sherlock turned from heroin to cocaine and those track marks on his arms faded.

Lestrade never gave up on him.

One day, a hot August Sunday, Lestrade had a small dressing on his arm where he’d burned himself taking food out of the oven. Sherlock heard him tell Donovan about it. Sherlock wished more than anything in the entire world that he could take that dressing out and inspect the burn as it was, before it left a permanent imprint on Lestrade’s skin.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had a scar on his head, hidden beneath his hair. Sherlock knew because he was there when Lestrade slipped on the black ice. They were chasing a suspect together. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be there, strictly speaking. But he was and they were almost a team. Almost.

Sherlock spun around at Lestrade’s surprised yell, and saw him lying on the ground, grabbing his head. Sherlock wavered, just for a moment, and he knew they’d find the criminal another day. He pulled Lestrade’s scarf off and wrapped it around his head to stem the bleeding.

“Bloody fucking son of a fucking bitch,” Lestrade was muttering while Sherlock tended to him. Lestrade refused hospital treatment so drove to his flat and Sherlock went with him, silently sat in the back.

The ginger cat hissed at Sherlock and he glared at it, holding Lestrade’s head in one hand as he cleaned the cut and decided it did not require stitches.

Lestrade was spitting curse words, all anger and passion and frustration. His stubble was rough against Sherlock’s hand and his cheek was hot and flushed. Dark brown, endlessly deep eyes, were staring back at Sherlock’s. Dilated pupils.

The realisation that Lestrade wanted him was enough to bring up an unexpected tightening to Sherlock’s chest, and he kissed those lips to end the swearing.

Lestrade kissed back with equal fervour until they were on the bed and Lestrade had two fingers buried inside Sherlock as he brought him home with his mouth. Lestrade fucked him, and the pleasure was intoxicating. Sherlock couldn’t come again, but he rode every sensation with muted moans and silent longing.

Lestrade never took his shirt off in all the subsequent times they had sex. Sherlock never saw his scars.

 

* * *

 

John Watson was scarred too. Sherlock knew because they lived together, and you see a remarkable amount of someone when you see them every day and walk in on them in the shower.

Sherlock had no longings for John Watson, but the scars were wonderful and fascinating.

He and Lestrade stopped having sex. It was a gradual ending of something never officially begun and Sherlock hardly noticed it was happening. Lestrade returned to his wife until she cheated on him again and she left again.

By then, Sherlock’s head was filled with Moriarty and games and puzzles, and it was like the old days. Adrenaline. But none of it was artificial. It was powerful.

Irene Adler’s body had no scars. She was mentally stimulating and curious, but Sherlock soon found he craved a body with interesting lines and marks.

Sherlock knew Moriarty said he owed him a fall. He knew the very worst was coming, and he didn’t know if he would get out of it alive.

He went to Lestrade one night. He broke into his flat. He’d just emerged from the shower, a towel around his waist. Sherlock stared at him. His chest. Those scars. Lestrade flinched from his gaze.

“Piss off, Sherlock,” he muttered.

“No.”

“Seriously. Can’t a bloke have 20 minutes of peace for Christ’s sake?”

“Peace is boring,” Sherlock replied, stepping towards him. “You think so too. That’s why you like me.”

Lestrade’s dark eyes were boring into him. He ground his teeth together a little bit, his fists clenching.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered. “Oh, you don’t just like me.”

“Don’t,” Lestrade hissed, as he turned to walk into his bedroom. Sherlock followed. Lestrade slammed the door in his face, but Sherlock walked in anyway.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped at him.

“Caring is disadvantageous,” Sherlock murmured, reminding himself more than anything else. “Sentiment makes you weak. Love is chemicals and…”

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!” Lestrade growled and he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s wrist, pulling him close and kissing him hard.

Sherlock responded in kind, holding his hands out and touching those incredible scars. And though he knew what caused them, they held no less interest for him.

Lestrade averted his eyes, stepping back and pulling away from Sherlock’s fingers. “No,” Sherlock snapped. “Don’t move.”

Lestrade swallowed, his body trembling. Cold, aroused, ashamed. Ashamed. Sherlock hated to see him ashamed, he felt it deep in his gut. Sherlock gently touched the phoenix tattoo. He allowed the tip of one finger to explore the outside of the burned, scarred skin, gentle and light.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered.

“Don’t you think it’s fascinating?” Sherlock asked.

“No. No I don’t.”

Fascinating was perhaps the wrong word for Lestrade, but for Sherlock, that’s what it was. The lines the curves the colours. He wanted to trace it with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to know what it tasted like compared to the rest of Lestrade’s skin. He wanted to see it under an ice cube, cold. He wanted to see it in the shower, wet. He wanted it under his hands, against his skin.

“Don’t you think your body is a map of your life?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s ugly,” Lestrade said. There was that shame again, and that was sad because it wasn’t ugly at all.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Sherlock repeated, and he leaned forward, kissing the centre of the scar and flicking out his tongue to taste it. Hints of shower gel. The brand was Radox. The green bottle. John used that one too.

Sherlock gazed up at him, reaching out and opening Lestrade’s towel so he could see his body, exposed, damp, scarred and oh so alluring.

Lestrade kissed him and pulled him in. Sherlock got lost in him. He surrounded his senses. Hot and fiery and so, so fascinating.

Sherlock left before Lestrade woke up. He had a love bite on the inside of his thigh and on his collarbone. He wished those marks would scar so he had Lestrade on his skin forever.

 

* * *

 

After the fall, those marks faded. When he realised they’d gone, he filled his body with heroin until he could forget it.

Moriarty promised to put a bullet in Lestrade. No injury Lestrade could ever receive terrified Sherlock more than that prospect. It would be an injury that wouldn’t scar. He’d be too long dead for that.

While travelling the globe, collecting his own scars, Sherlock tried to delete Lestrade. He never could.

When he got home, he refused to look at his own body. What once was free of scars and marks was filled with terrible memories and triggers.

Sherlock finally understood why Lestrade was ashamed of his own scars.

Lestrade hugged him when he returned. He accepted him into his life with few questions. They lay on Lestrade’s bed, sharing a cigarette. They were both fully dressed, looking up at the ceiling.

They slept like that, beneath the covers. Sherlock was too hot, but he couldn’t bear for someone to see the marks scattered across his body.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock avoided Lestrade. He avoided him because he could see Lestrade’s pain, deep and radiating from his eyes with every glance in his direction. It hurt Sherlock, because he only realised now - all too late - that Lestrade had always carried that look.

Sherlock couldn’t bear to think that Lestrade might be carrying any sort of emotional scars. He hated even more to think that he put them there, deep within his heart.

And he shot Magnussen, and no, he didn’t regret it. As he sat on the aeroplane to take him to Eastern Europe, he thought of Lestrade and how he might now be able to move on from those emotional scars Sherlock had left behind, without Sherlock there to hold him back.

And all too soon, the plane was turning around.

Sherlock got a taxi to Lestrade’s. He was feeding the cat and stood up straight when Sherlock entered the living room.

“You’re back quickly,” Lestrade murmured, frowning at him. “Everything alright?”

“No,” Sherlock said. He began to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, walking towards him. Sherlock held a hand out to stop him. He reached the final button and slid his shirt off to expose his own scars. They came in lines from cuts and circles from stabs. They came in burns from a lighter and rings from a bullet. More spread over his back.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Lestrade breathed out, walking towards him.

“The nightmares,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. “I thought they would stop.”

Lestrade reached him and reached out with his scarred hand, touching Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “We’ll sort it,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

“You give too much,” Sherlock whispered, staring at him.

Lestrade shook his head. “No. I love too much.”

Sherlock felt his whole body shake. “You look…” He frowned and stared at him. “You always look so sad these days.”

“I’m not sad,” Lestrade murmured. “I just didn’t know what you needed anymore.”

“You always know,” Sherlock said, taking hold of his hands.

Lestrade squeezed his fingers. “You want to see my scars?” he asked.

Sherlock let out a choked laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“You always touched them when we were together,” Lestrade said, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I put most of them there,” Sherlock said. “Why don’t you hate me?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, with a slow, affectionate smile spreading over his face. “No one has ever left a bigger mark on my life than you.”

Sherlock stared at him. He thought of his own scars over his body. The pain he’d taken for John, Mrs Hudson and most of all, Lestrade. He knew it was mutual.

He kissed Lestrade, soft and slow, a wondrous thing. They had sex with the light on, naked and exposed. Sherlock told Lestrade he loved him that night. The smile he got in return made him realise those internal scars could be healed, even if the external marks lasted forever. 


End file.
